


No Name

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-28
Updated: 2000-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: The past comes back to haunt one of Chicago's finest.





	No Name

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Dewey

No Name

By Lucy Hale

 

Warning - Talk of child abuse. Nothing too graphic.

Feedback - Yes, please.

 

 

 

 

People could hear the two of them coming from the hall. Not that they talked louder than most others, but their tones were usually easy to pick out. Police stations weren't generally happy places, but these guys were always laughing about something or another. 

"Okay. Let me get this straight. Some guy is riding around a dry wasteland on a nameless horse..."

"Uh huh. Great song. American classic."

"Not denying that."

"So what's the problem?"

Jack Huey stopped dead in the hall, facing his partner to make his point. "The guy had to call the horse _something_."

Tom Dewey rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Of course he didn't. What, is he gonna have long, drawn out conversations with the horse? Something he's gotta get personal about?"

"In the desert? Who else is he gonna talk to?"

"All right, given." They started walking again, towards the bullpen. "No one else to talk to. There's still no need to name the horse."

"Well, what did he say when he wanted its attention?"

"Wanted its attention? For what? 'Hey, horse, check out that babe.' Come on, Jack."

"Look, you've got to give a horse orders, right. You can't call them just like a dog. Right?"

"I dunno. Sometimes the guys in the movies just whistle."

"Well, I'm not talking about the movies."

Dewey thought about it. "Okay. If I accept, for the sake of argument, that things would go easier if the horse had a name, I still don't see why one nameless horse in a desert somewhere would be bothering you."

Jack shrugged. "I'm just thinking of--"

"Hey, watch out!" 

Both men turned at the same time, and a man was barreling down the hall towards them, one handcuff fastened to his wrist, the other end dangling. He was big, and looked mad. 

The partners barely glanced at each other. Dewey went high, Huey went low, and they tackled the man right as he passed, knocking him to the ground and quickly getting his hands behind his back and into the cuffs all the way.

The man who had shouted the warning, a uniform leading two others, came up, breathing heavily. "Thanks. He broke away while we were putting the cuffs on."

"Yeah. No problem. So this guy in the desert, it's him I'm thinking of." Huey and his partner hauled the man to his feet, passing him into the sheepish patrolman's hands. 

Dewey brushed himself off as they started off again. "Well, why couldn't he just say...horse."

"'Hey, Horse?'"

"Exactly."

"But when he did that wouldn't he be naming the horse?"   
  
"What the hell kind of name is Horse?" Dewey leered at Frannie Vecchio as she passed on her way to records.

She rolled her eyes on reflex, brushing past without a word.  
  
"Not a very creative one, but it's a name."

  
Dewey shook his head. "Nope. Just 'cause he calls it that once doesn't mean it's a name. If my name was just what people called me--"  
  
Jack grinned at the opening. "Your name would be--"

"Shut up."

"Hey, guys. Welsh is kinda pissed today, look out." Ray Vecchio the Second gave the two men a slight smile when they came in. 

They flashed easy grins, not stopping to chat. The two of them got along with Ray Kowalski as long as they didn't have much prolonged contact, at which time they were bound to offend him somehow, and inevitably he'd end up slamming Tom against a wall or a desk or a car or something else. Just made for pointless tension.

"Oh, Jack?"

Huey glanced back. 

"You guys finished looking at that Perkins reports? We got a body uptown that looks like a copycat."

Huey grimaced. "Yeah, no problem. I'll get it for you. This is the desert we're talking about. Calling him Horse once is enough. You can remember your name."

Dewey's brow creased. "You mean if there was sand under our feet right now, and I called Ray over there a temperamental asshole, that would be his name?"

"Not necessarily. But if it was the desert, and you meant that to be his name, at least he would never forget it."

"Huh. I dunno. Just because you _can_ remember your name, doesn't mean you won't ever forget it. And anyway, about this horse. It could have been a rental."

"Rental?"

"Sure. If the horse belonged to the guy riding it, he'd have a name, right? But if the guy just borrowed it, or rented for the day, to go through the desert, no name's really necessary." Tom pulled the file out and they started back for Ray. "And what's with the desert, anyway? Is this an American desert? Someplace in Egypt? Do memory-altering properties exist in a particular kind of desert?"

"It doesn't matter. No, I think there's just something about the dry weather makes you remember your name." 

Ray glanced up with a nod of thanks as Dewey passed the file over. 

"So humidity would make you forget?" 

Ray couldn't help looking back up at the two as they started off again, walking in step with each other, carrying on their pointless conversation. "Freaks." He shook his head and went back to work.  


Huey shrugged. "It stands to reason."

  
"Huh. Then why isn't there a song about wandering the tropics with amnesia?"

Jack thought about it. "There probably used to be."

"Hey, you two, Welsh said he wanted to see you soon as you got in." 

They nodded their thanks to Dutch and changed direction to go to Welsh's office.   
  
"So what happened to it? How come nobody sings that one?"   
  
"I guess they must have forgotten it."

"Ba dum bum." Dewey faked a rimshot, and they grinned at each other, keeping in step, distanced from the others around them. Just like always.

 

 

 

 

The air in the small office was tense. 

Two men were sitting, matching black suits, matching ties, and matching FBI badges, as Welsh had seen a minute ago. 

They had come to talk to one of his men. And he didn't like that. He didn't like that they wouldn't tell him what this was about, and he didn't like it that they were sitting there, silent, and staring at him with matching stares as they waited.

It was so quiet in that office that Welsh could hear the ticking of his watch, and his eyes drifted to his hands, folded on top of his desk. Frannie was out doing some research for Ray and Fraser, and her absence from around the office when these men had arrived had led to a much tenser meeting than it would have otherwise.

Much as he got annoyed at Vecchio's sister and her unprofessionalism, her blatant flirting, her pointless chatter about cappuccino machines, it did make for a more relaxed atmosphere. He could have used that right then. He had a feeling they'd need it.

It wasn't the matching solemn faces staring at him, or the one briefcase sitting between them. Just something in the air told him this was bad news.

"So maybe that's what happened to the horse." The door came flying open, and the summoned detective came in, grinning his normal cocky grin.  
  
"I don't follow." His partner, looking a little more dignified, followed him, of course right in sync with his friend.  
  
"Well, it was a rental, right? So one trip it got taken to the rainforest and forgot its name, and so now the singer took it to the desert to refresh its memory." Dewey grinned over at Welsh. "Morning, sir. Want to settle this for us?"

Welsh's eyebrows came up, and he stood. "Detectives, these men are agents with the FBI."

Dewey and Huey glanced back and saw the agents. "Oh. Sorry, sir." Dewey had a rather unembarrassed grin on his face.

"Yeah. Detective Huey, would you mind giving us a minute?"

The partners exchanged looks. "Something wrong, Lieu?"

One of the agents spoke, rescuing Welsh from having to answer. "Lieutenant Welsh, we actually need to borrow your office for a few minutes."

Welsh turned at that. "Excuse me?"

"We want to have a few words with Detective Dewey alone."

"Holy shit," Dewey couldn't help muttering, taking in their expressions. "Jack?"

Huey shrugged, glancing at Welsh. 

Welsh glared at the agents, but gestured to Huey. "Let's go, detective. Give them a few minutes." His voice made it clear a few minutes was all he was allowing.

They nodded to him, and Huey shot his partner one last confused look as he was shuffled out.

Dewey waited for the door to shut, then faced the agents. "Uh."

"Detective." With one snap of movement, the agents rose and moved to Welsh's desk. The first one set the briefcase on the desk, and with a snap of movement had the case open and a picture out and pointing at Dewey. "Do you recognize these people?"

Dewey glanced once at the photo, and the color left his face, his nervous attempt at a grin vanished, and he slumped down on the chair behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

Benton Fraser couldn't help but notice that the bullpen was somewhat quiet when he came in. Of course there was the usual hustle and bustle of a police station. Men and women in uniform came in and out, and suspects were being held and talked to quietly, witnesses giving statements. 

But it was a less of a bustle than usual. He approached his unofficial partner's desk, and noted several reasons for the restrained atmosphere. One, Francesca Vecchio was nowhere in sight. Two, while Detective Huey was in sight, talking quietly to Leftenant Welsh, his partner wasn't in sight, which brought the volume down another few notches. 

"Hey, Frase." Ray looked up as he reached the desk, offering a small smile. "Hey, ya know, I'm feeling ma...uh. Mag...damn. What's that word?"

Somehow Fraser knew instinctively as he pulled up a chair. "Magnanimous?"

"Exactly. That's how I'm feeling. So much that I'm gonna give you something to do to occupy yer mind while yer waitin' for me to finish here."

Fraser couldn't hide a slight smile. "That's most kind of you, Ray."

"Isn't it? So here ya go. You can finish this report. Lucky guy." He slid the paper over. "Thank me later. I gotta go get some coffee." He stood and was out of sight a second later.

Fraser grinned to himself as he looked over what Ray had scribbled so far. Poor Ray. He hated paperwork. He was lucky their positions weren't switched. Just looking at the number of forms Fraser had to fill out during a typical day at the Consulate made Ray's head hurt. So he claimed. 

He quickly started on the report. Fortunately he had been present when the suspect was apprehended. Nothing new, of course, but occasionally Ray had attempted to hand him a case he hadn't been a witness to.

He glanced up as the door to Welsh's office came open, and a couple of men in matching suits emerged. FBI agents, he guessed. They tended to come to the station in groups.

"Lieutenant?" One of the agents spoke.

Fraser watched with interest as Welsh went over and talked to the two men quietly. He was tempted, but his sense of duty wouldn't let him listen in to a conversation that was obviously official. 

Welsh seemed to get disturbed as they talked, and after a moment he led them back into the office and went in after them. As the door closed, Fraser caught sight of Detective Dewey, already in the office.

Strange. Huey was out here on his own. Fraser couldn't remember more than a moment at a time he had seen the two men apart since they had become partners.

Huey was looking a little lost, standing there with nothing to do. 

Fraser glanced back at Ray's desk, opting not to get involved. He picked up the pen to start writing again, but Welsh's door came flying open again, and Dewey practically stormed out. 

Huey went to intercept his partner, but Dewey didn't even look over. His face set, he moved quickly through the office and towards the hall.

Welsh appeared in his doorway. "Detective." His voice was a warning, but Dewey didn't even slow down. Welsh heaved a breath, his eyes going to Huey. "Jack, get in here." 

Surprised, both by the use of his name and Welsh's soft voice, Huey turned his eyes from where his partner had gone, following Welsh into his office.

Fraser's eyebrows went up as the door shut. "Hmm."

"'Hmm' what?" Ray appeared, dropping down in his seat, the scent of coffee and chocolate wafting after him. 

"Oh. Nothing."

"God, I hate it when you do that."

"Oh, it's nothing. It seems there's something going on involving Detectives Huey and Dewey and agents of the FBI. I found it interesting that--"

"Frase?"

"Yes?"

"Who cares? You're not their unofficial partner, yer my unofficial partner. Which mean unofficially, you should be working on that report."

Fraser resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You see, Ray, this is why I rarely explain to you what I mean when I make a noise like--"

"Hey, no offense er nothin'. I'm just glad if the Feds are around they're not lookin' to ruin _my_ day."

Welsh's office door opened, right on cue. "Vecchio?"

Ray's eyes went up. "Yeah?"

"In here. Fraser, give us a minute."

Fraser's eyebrows shot up even higher. So Ray was involved in this now, and he wasn't. Interesting.

"Friggin' great. Just what I need to feed the ulcers."

"I'm sorry, Ray, I wasn't aware you had ulcers."

"Not yet." Ray slid out of his seat. "But they're comin. I was watching something about 'em on TV last night."

"A medical show?" Fraser tried not to look too impressed. 

"Nah. Lethal Weapon Two. The guy, Mel Gibson, he had an ulcer. It was the job, I'm telling you. If it doesn't get ya killed one way, it'll find another."

"Detective? Pretend I just summoned you."

Ray turned at that and headed for his boss. "Sorry, sir."

"Yeah. Just get in here."

Ray moved past him, looking around at the group. Huey, two Feds, and Welsh, all looking a little too serious. And Fraser wasn't invited. "What's goin' on?"

"Detective, do these people look familiar?" One of the Feds handed across a black and white picture.

Ray took it and looked for a minute. The photo was an obvious surveillance picture, grainy, black and white, and of two people who didn't look like they knew they were getting their pictures taken. The man was old, in his sixties, maybe, and the woman with him was young, maybe mid-fifties. "Nope. Never seen 'em before."

The agent pursed his lips over at Welsh. "This man is a known sex offender who has recently moved to the Chicago area. Your men should have at least seen photos."

Welsh, to Ray's surprise, didn't snap back at the man. "Look, we've got known sex offenders all over this city, much as I hate to admit it. And you said yourself this guy hasn't had a record for the last twenty-five years. We may not be as up-to-date here as you are." He shrugged. 

Ray glanced between his boss and the Feds. "Yeah? So who is the old guy?"

The Fed looked at him. "That old guy has been under our surveillance for over two decades now. His name is Peter Carmello. He was arrested in 1977 for child abuse and statutory rape, but the sole witness against him, the child accusing him, vanished a month or so before trial was scheduled. Since then we've had our eyes on him, but he hasn't been a top priority, and we could never get anything definite on him. We'd been letting him slide the last few years. Until we had a run-in with a few men down in New York a couple of months ago. These men were the lowest scum you could ever meet in your life. Their major trade was...well, I guess the only way to put it would be the white slave trade."

Ray's eyebrows shot up, and beside him, Huey sucked in a breath. Welsh didn't make much of a reaction. 

"These men..." The agent shook his head. "There were four of them, and they had a system. They would kidnap kids, no definite pattern. Sometimes from schools, playgrounds, the streets, they would even stake out shopping malls and toy stores. A parent turns their back for one minute, the kid would be gone. And they would sell these kids. Asia, Europe, they even have a few connections in South Africa and Mexico." 

Ray's eyes wandered back to the picture, his face a hard mask. He hadn't had to deal with anything that major before, not in Chicago. He had refused to work Vice or Sex Crimes for that very reason. These crimes...slavery, selling people like they were property, forced prostitution, it was appalling. When it was being done to children, it was unthinkable. It made his stomach twist into knots and his loathing for even the most petty criminal magnify hundreds of times, as though pick-pockets were somehow the first in a chain that led to those bastards shipping little kids off and selling them to sex shops in a foreign country. 

Welsh found his voice first, and though his expression stayed calm, his voice was hard as steel. "What does this have to do with Carmello?" he asked, nodding at the picture Ray was glaring at. 

"The men we have in lock-up rolled on the man paying most of their bills, and it turns out it's the same Peter Carmello we've been trying to nail. And the lady right there is Mrs. Carmello, in the business as deep as her husband. As I've said, the two have recently made the move to Chicago."

Welsh flinched at that, at just the idea of those monsters in his city.

"They'll be tying up some old loose ends, and we plan to catch them once and for all."

Ray looked down at the picture. These two looked like his parents. Well, someone's parents. Hardly looked like pedophiles, or slave traders, or whatever the FBI was going to label them as. Never could tell with people. "So whaddaya want us to do?"

The Agent serving as speaker glanced at his companion. They exchanged some silent communication, and the speaker turned back to the three cops. "To tell the truth, all we need from you is cooperation. There's only one officer we need to use for what we have planned." 

Ray glanced at Welsh, and saw the hard, almost angry glint in his eyes. "Who's that?"

"Detective Dewey."

Ray's brow creased. At the same time, Huey jerked upright from where he was leaning against the wall, and sent a glare to the two agents. "That's what you said before. But you never said what Dewey was going under as."

Welsh spoke up quickly. "And I already told you, he's not going in unless he gives consent. I don't force my detectives into anything."

"Dewey doesn't wanna do this?" Ray glanced between the four men. "Can't ya send someone else?"

"In this situation, I'm afraid not. We need his cooperation." That was directed right at Welsh, sounding precariously close to being an order. 

Welsh waved his hand. "I'll talk to him, but I'm not promising anything."

"Whoa, whoa. Nobody answered my question." Huey wasn't happy, and it showed. "Why does it have to be my partner? What's he going undercover as?"

"Technically, he's not."

Three Chicago cops blinked at two Feds. "He isn't going undercover? You mean you want to deliver Dewey to these guys? What, did he put them away once or something? This some kind of setup?"

"That's exactly what this is."

Welsh waited exactly one more second, then blew up. "Would someone please give a straight answer? What the hell is Dewey's role in this?"

The Feds exchanged glances. "Detective Dewey's birth name was Thomas Dylan Carmello. He's their son."

"He's _what_?"

"He's also the one child to actually attempt to testify against Carmello."

There was a pause as the officers absorbed that. "Hang on." Huey looked completely lost. "Tom...?"

"When he was ten, Peter Carmello's brother, Edward, went to a lawyer. He claimed that his nephew was being abused, and wanted to know if there was anything he could do about it. Word reached us, and we took the kid under our protection. As it got closer to court date, Edward and his wife got spooked. They took their nephew one night and vanished." The agent shrugged. "It actually took us a few years to track them down. They had moved to a small fishing town on Lake Michigan, and changed their name. Edward Carmello became Thomas Edmund Dewey, and young Thomas was made his namesake. They put down the story that they were raising their nephew since his parents' deaths."

Jack nodded almost numbly. "Tom told me his parents were dead."

"As he was supposed to, as they trained him to since he was ten."

Huey cursed quietly. 

Ray glanced over at him, then back at the Feds. "Why didn't you come for Dewey earlier when you found out where he was? You said you've been trying to get this guy Carmello."

"By the time we located the Deweys, priority had dropped on Carmello. He was just another sex offender, and truthfully we had bigger fish to worry about. We kept an eye on him, hoping he would slip up again, because with the years between the crimes and any trial, the sentence would have been light if Dewey was the only one prosecuting."

"So now what?" Ray could tell from Welsh's face that he was still missing a key part of this little story.

"So now, we want Dewey's help bringing them in. We want him to approach him as exactly what he is -- their son. If we can get him to issue a few threats of blackmail, and get Carmello to confess to what he's doing, we can nail the bastard."

There was a tense pause in the room as the men absorbed that little plan. Huey spoke finally, his voice surprisingly quiet. "What...what was he...when they tried to take him to court, when he was a kid, what..." He trailed off, uncomfortable.

The agent met his eyes, blatant and straightforward. "It was a typical child abuse case. There was a history of violence. And yes, before you ask, there was a pattern of sexual abuse."

Huey blanched, sinking back into the couch. From the look on his face, he hadn't been prepared to ask or get that information supplied to him. 

"So now we're offering your partner a chance to close that part of his life. It's as simple as that."

"Wait a minute. You're talking about one of my men." Welsh swallowed, his face pale. "He doesn't want to do it. I saw that much. And no one's going to force him to do something like this. No one."

"Lieutenant--"

Welsh cut him off. "Why not just send one of your own men in as the son? Surely you know as much about Dewey's past as he does, and they'd have no way of knowing what he looks like."

A dark look passed between the two agents. "We attempted to do that, two months ago. When we first got word about Carmello's part in the ring in New York we were attempting to beak up. We sent a man in."

"What happened?"

"He was found out, the very day we sent him in. We still have no idea how Carmello knew."

Welsh's eyes bored into the agents. "What happened?" he repeated tersely.

The agent hesitated. "Our man was found the next day. Dead."

Welsh swore lightly under his breath.

"You know if they found out he wasn't who he said he was? Maybe Carmello didn't respond well to blackmail." Ray's arms crossed over his chest.

"We don't. We're hoping. There's probably some identifying mark we didn't know about, and the Carmellos found that out. I hesitate to think they'd kill their own son."

"But you don't know," Huey retorted.

"No. We don't, not for sure." The Agent met the two detective's glares with a steady look. He turned to Welsh next. "That's it, Lieutenant. That's the situation. We want Dewey inside, and we want to put a stop to Carmello. We can send him in--"

"You won't use a single one of my officers, not unless they agree to it." Welsh stood, his voice firm. "From what I heard, Dewey didn't give his consent for this operation. And unless he does, unforced, this thing stops before it even starts. You hear me?"

The agents stood, seeing that the meeting was coming to an unpleasant end. "Lieutenant, this is the best chance we could have hoped for to put away a man we've been after for decades. I can understand your detective being a little upset, but this is bigger than him. You should let him know that."

Welsh glared, his mouth opening to snap a reply.

"We'll come back tomorrow," the agent went on before Welsh could say anything. "We'll expect to see Dewey here and ready to cooperate. I've contacted your chief, Lieutenant. If we have to use more persuasive means of getting cooperation from this office, we will." 

The two men turned together and headed for the door, briefcase in hand. A moment later, they were gone.

"Son of a bitch." Welsh kept his voice surprisingly calm. 

There was a tense pause. Ray glanced from Huey to Welsh. "So what're you gonna do, sir?"

Welsh made a face. "Jack, go track down your partner and get him back here."

Huey's expression was deadly. "Sir, you're not going to force him to--"

"I'm just gonna talk to him, Huey. Go on."

Jack hesitated, tense, but turned and left the office a minute later.

Welsh sighed and dropped back down in his seat. "What a mess."

"Sir?"

"Yeah. Vecchio. Go on and do some work. Keep your mouth shut about this." Welsh dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Ray turned and left, heading for his desk.

Fraser looked up with poorly disguised interest. "Is there anything going on I should know about?"

"Uh. Nah. Not right now, Frase. We'll talk about it later." Ray glanced around the bullpen, a frown in his eyes. "Where's Dewey?"

"I believe he left the station while you were gone for coffee."

"Oh." Ray glanced towards the door, as though that would make it clearer. "Jesus. Poor guy. Who would have..."

"Detective Dewey?" Fraser couldn't help being curious.

"Yeah." Ray grimaced down at the paperwork waiting for him. "How 'bout we get outta here, Frase?"

"Don't you have to finish these reports?"

"Nah. Not...not now. Not today." He looked around, and his eyes stopped at Welsh's office for a minute. A darkness went through his expression. "I just can't be here anymore right now. Let's get lost."

 

 

 

 

 

Ray couldn't help growling at his phone as the ringing interrupted the best scene in the movie. "Dammit." He got up, twisting to keep his eyes on the TV screen as he moved towards the kitchen. "Keep watching, Frase. This scene makes the whole movie worth it."

__

I certainly hope so, Fraser couldn't help thinking. He had just sat through ninety-one minutes of swearing and depravity he normally had no interest in watching. 

Ray grabbed the phone impatiently. "Yeah?"

"Uh. Vecchio."

"Yeah? Huey? That you?"

"Yeah. I...need your help."

Ray couldn't help a smirk. "You need my help? You? Need my help?"

"All right, dammit, never mind." 

"Hang on." Ray laughed quietly. "What's wrong?"

"Never mind. I can handle it." There was a pause, and the distinct sound of breaking glass. "Shit. Uh, Ray? I guess I do need your help."

"Sure. What's up?" Ray heard the muted noise of a gunshot from the television set behind him, and he sighed. Best scene of the movie. 

"It's Tom. He's kind of...um, can you come over here? We're at Mulligans."

Mulligans. Cop bar on first. Ray used to know it very, very well, right after the divorce. "Sure. Be there in a few."

Huey tried not to sound too grateful. "Thanks."

Ray hung up, moving back to the living room. "Frase? Sounds like Dewey went on a bender. We gotta go pick him up."

Fraser was staring at the television screen with some horror. "Ray, that was horrible."

Ray's eyes drifted over, and he grinned. "Yeah. Love that movie. Let's get out of here."

Fraser stood automatically. "I just...I just don't understand."

"Great, huh?" Ray tossed Fraser's pea coat to him as he headed for the door. "I knew you'd like it."

"The man...he shot himself. And that's it? The movie's over?"

"Yup. I know why yer so surprised. Imagine, something cool like that comin' out of Canada." He steered Fraser out the door. "Good music too, huh?"

"If you like that kind of thing." Fraser shrugged his coat on. "Did you say we were picking up Detective Dewey?"

"Yeah. Jack was calling from a cop bar near the station. I guess Dewey went to drown his sorrows." 

Any other time, Ray would have made a joke. He would have made some mocking comment about the detective with whom he had a somewhat adversarial relationship, but this time he stayed quiet. Fraser couldn't help but notice that, and he still didn't know exactly why. Ray hadn't discussed what happened earlier that day, but he was restrained that night. Even watching that awful film, laughing at Fraser's reactions to the drug use and language, he hadn't seemed to be his usual self. 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ray!" Jack stood from the small table when Ray and Fraser came in, a huge, artificial grin plastered to his face. "Funny seeing you here!"

Ray's brow furrowed, but a glance down at Dewey told him to play along. The detective was sitting among a few empty glasses, eyeing the two newcomers with glassy suspicion. "Uh. Yeah. Funny. Just thought...y'know. We just wanted a drink."

"A drink?" Dewey may have been glassy, but his voice was clear. "That really is funny, considering you're on the wagon and Fraser there's too pure to drink anything with a kick."

"Well. They got really good soda here." Ray moved over to the table, followed by Fraser. "How you guys doing?"

"Just fucking great," Dewey's eyes went back to his drink.

Huey laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah. Great. Uh, Ray, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure thing. Frase, get yerself a drink or something."

Fraser looked after Ray as he followed Huey, his brow furrowed. He took a seat, turning his attention to Dewey. 

"Hey, Red, your parents are dead."

Surprised, Fraser nodded. "Yes, they are."

"You sure about that? 'Cause you may want to be sure."

"No, I'm quite sure. My father in particular has made his death very...noticeable."

"Uh huh. That a fact?" Dewey's eyes went back to the glass. "You're a lucky guy. 'Cause I thought they were dead. Teach me to believe what my uncle tells me, huh?"

Fraser studied the detective. That was probably the first time someone told him he was lucky for losing his parents. He wasn't following Dewey's train of thought exactly, but he had no doubt this had something to do with what had happened earlier that day. "You know, Detective Dewey, being confronted with the truth is not always a pleasant thing. But knowing the full truth, no matter how ugly, is preferable to not--"

"Shut up, Fraser." Dewey's eyes wandered up to the Mountie's. "Guess I'm not surprised everybody knows what happened. Guess I gotta look forward to everybody coming up and giving me their two cents on the matter."

"I'm sorry. I actually have no idea what's going on. Ray hasn't said anything related to work since we left the station earlier--"

"You just can't keep quiet for a minute, can ya?"

Fraser almost answered that. Instead, he shut his mouth and kept quiet, glancing over at Ray and Huey.

 

 

 

 

"Look, it's awkward. I don't want to tell him to go home and sleep it off. I'm his partner, you know? But you guys already don't like each other, so I just thought..."

"Oh, sure. You want me to be the bad guy and tell him to stop embarrassing himself." Ray smirked.

"Well? Should be right up your alley, humiliating Tom." Huey folded his arms in front of his chest, unable to ask Ray for help without making a challenge of it.

Of course, Ray's attitude didn't help. "You think he'll listen to anything I say? Your partner isn't known for being reasonable and cooperative, Jack."

"He's had a bad day, all right?"

Ray glanced over at Dewey and grimaced. "Yeah, I'll give ya that."

Huey nodded. "And I've got exactly," he glanced at his watch, "six hours to convince him to cooperate with the Feds before we get to work tomorrow."

"I can't help ya there. I got no use for the Feds. If I was Dewey, I'd say no too."

Huey looked over at his partner, and his expression tinged with concern. "Look, just try to help me out here." He started back to the table before Ray could say anything else.

Dewey looked up when he came over. "Can't believe you called for reinforcements, Jack."

Huey raised his hands. "It's not like that, Tom."

"Bull shit." Dewey turned to Ray suddenly. "They told you everything?"

Beside Ray, Huey winced. Ray glanced over and saw the pain in his eyes, and turned back to Dewey. "Yeah. They did."

"Uh huh. Great." Dewey blinked glazed eyes down at the table. 

Fraser looked at Ray, his eyes questioning.

Ray just shook his head slightly. "Look, Dewey, you gotta at least go in and talk to Welsh about this."

Dewey stood up without a pause. He pushed his chair back and left the table.

Jack cursed and got up after him. "Tom, you have to listen to us."

"Yeah? Give me one good reason."

"I'm your partner. I'm your best friend, I wouldn't tell you to do something like this if you didn't--"

"Fuck you, Jack." Dewey spun to face his partner, and his glare turned to include Ray and Fraser. "None of you have the slightest goddamned idea what's going on here. Don't tell me what I need to do, or what's good for me."

"Look, Tom, we know. Those Agents told us everything."

If he didn't have alcohol in him, no doubt Dewey would have let out some sarcastic remark and turned and left. He would never have kept that conversation going.

Instead, he was just drunk enough to turn on them. "No. I don't care what those fucking Feds told you. You still don't know what's going on. You have no idea what it's like. What'd they tell you? That I've got parents, that they're selling kids? That when I was a kid I came close to putting them in prison? Big deal. That doesn't tell you anything." He was speaking loudly enough for everyone in the tables around them to turn and stare, but he didn't notice. "Doesn't tell you what it's like, you know? Everything I remember about my parents is them hurting me. My dad dishing out his little punishments for everything I did. Coming in to my room, at first only at night, then any damned time he felt like. And mom, she'd be right there, letting it happen. Not saying a damned thing. If she even thought about protesting, she didn't."

He glared at each of them, even Fraser, who looked only confused, though awareness was dawning. "Finally, I got out of there. My uncle...he came around one night unexpected, heard more than he was supposed to, and got me the hell out of there. Takes me to the cops, but gets spooked and we come here. Coupla weeks later, he tells me my parents were killed in a car accident. Guess he knew it would make me feel better than knowing they're out there somewhere." He paused, swaying slightly where he stood. "So now I got Feds showing up, telling me not only that my uncle's a liar and my parents are alive, but that they're in town and it's my job as a police officer to confront them, and let the FBI get it all on tape." 

He laughed slightly, a sound that was so bitter it was unrecognizable coming from the detective. "So don't tell me what I have to do, or what's gonna be good for me, okay? Until you got somebody like that in your life...you don't know. You just can't fucking know what it's like to look behind you and see this man standing there, and know as soon as you see him that you're gonna get hurt, and there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it. You got nowhere you can go, 'cause the people who're supposed to protect you are the ones beating the shit out of you. You got no idea. You..." He trailed off, his gaze locked onto Huey's. He saw the look in his partner's eyes, the pain and hurt, and sympathy, and he stopped death, shutting his mouth with a snap. 

A minute later, it occurred to him that there were other people around. He glanced over at Ray and Fraser, saw them staring. His eyes shut briefly. "Shit."

And then the silence in the bar around them filtered through his brain. A look of almost fright passed over him, and he looked around. People sitting in the chairs around them were staring blatantly. A few managed to turn around after his eyes found them, but no one attempted to pretend they hadn't just heard everything he'd said. 

Dewey sagged where he stood, his head bowing. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. A slight laugh bubbled out of him, humorless and strange-sounding. 

Huey took a step forward, uncomfortable and unsure of exactly what to say. "Tom, look..."

Dewey stood for a moment, waiting, but Jack couldn't find a single thing to say. So Dewey turned, finally, shooting a small smile back towards Huey and the other two of his colleagues. "Don't worry. I'm through embarrassing myself now. Sorry you had to call in the troops, Jack. I'm done." He turned and went for the door.

Jack hesitated, then started after him. "Tom, hang on."

"Stop." Dewey turned back to him quickly. "Just...stay here." He met his partner's eyes for a moment, drilling in his point, and then left.

Huey stood frozen, before slowly turning back to Ray and Fraser. "I shouldn't have called you. Sorry." His voice was low. "I'll...uh, I'll see you guys tomorrow." He headed out the door slowly, almost dragging his feet.

Fraser and Ray were left sitting at the table, a stunned kind of silence hanging over them. 

Ray turned to Fraser finally, a pitiful attempt at a smile coming and then leaving his face. "I guess you know what's going on now."

"I think Detective Dewey was fairly clear, yes."

"Yeah. Well, we gotta keep it quiet for now, until Dewey makes some kinda decision."

"Of course." 

There was an awkward pause. "Jesus Christ," Ray said finally. "He just doesn't seem like...like that coulda happened to him. Jesus, this sucks."

 

 

 

 

 

Huey showed up at work early, before Welsh was even there, and was surprised to see Ray Kowalski and Benton Fraser sitting at Ray's desk, talking quietly. 

They looked up when he came in, and Ray stood. "Hey, Jack."

"You guys here early?"

"Yep. Same as you. Probably fer the same reason."

"I doubt it," Jack said quietly, without much heat. 

"Sure. We didn't want your partner to have to face Welsh and those Feds without some backup around." Ray paused, shifting uncomfortably. "We...uh..."

"What Ray is attempting to say is that he wasn't quite sure whether or not the two of you were aware that despite past difficulties in getting along, there is a certain comradeship that extends between--"

"No. What I'm attempting to say is that we've got yer back, both of ya. We work together, we should back each other up."

"Ahh." Fraser accepted the reinterpretation with a nod. "Of course."

Huey blinked in surprise. "Thanks, Vecchio."

"Yeah, well. Ya know, despite bein' a couple of jerks you guys did come through in the end with Beth Botrelle and everything. I figure we gotta stick together."

"Yeah. Yeah, we do." Huey managed a smile.

"So..." Ray lowered his voice, despite the fact that there were only two or three other people in the bullpen. "Did ya talk to him last night? After...?"

"No. I called his apartment a couple of times, but he didn't answer." He paused. "I called his uncle. I don't think Tom's even told him what's going on."

"You think he's gonna come in?"

Huey nodded. "Yeah. Tom's a screwball sometimes, but he wouldn't not show for work."

Movement caught their eyes, and Huey and Ray turned as Welsh came in, eyeing them with surprise and suspicion. "What's going on here?"

"Morning to you too," Ray said under his breath. "Nothing, sir. Just came in to catch up on some paperwork."

"All of you?" Welsh turned raised eyebrows to Huey.

Huey met his gaze in near-challenge. "Yes, sir."

Welsh let out a breath, coming closer to where they were standing by Ray's desk. "Listen, I don't like this either. Don't look at me like I'm the bad guy here. I wanted Dewey in this morning to talk it over with him, that's all. I told those Feds, and I'll tell 'em again today, that Dewey isn't going to do anything if he doesn't want to. The Feds have already contacted the Chief, and I had a nice long talk with him last night. But I don't care if the Mayor himself calls, if Dewey says no, he doesn't do it."

Ray almost grinned. Welsh would stand by that -- Welsh would go down in flames protecting his detectives. They all knew it, even if they forgot sometimes. "Yeah, we know that, Lieu."

Huey nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Thanks, sir."

Welsh nodded once tersely and headed for his office. 

 

 

 

 

Dewey came strolling in right on time, grinning the same cocky grin he always seemed to have plastered to his face, ignoring both his partner and Ray Vecchio and Ben Fraser, going instead to Francesca Vecchio, who was perched on her desk pecking at her computer slowly. 

"Hey, Frannie, I got a line on some tickets to the concert tomorrow night. Wanna go? Third row center." He wagged his eyebrows.

Fran perked in slightly suspicious interest. "What band?"

"Does it matter? We're talking two hours in the dark with yours truly. Trust me, babe, you won't even hear the music."

She rolled her eyes. "Dream on, Dewey."

He clutched his chest. "I'm hurt. Seriously. No, really. Severely. You've hurt me. I mean it. Real, actual pain. Physical anguish. Really, can you see? Am I bleeding? God, that hurt me. Soulless creature."

She laughed incredulously. "Would you get lost?"

He let out a little cry, staggering. "Stop it! Have you no heart? What did I ever do to you? I can't remember such agony."

She reached out and slapped his arm, grinning. "You, Tom, are a complete idiot."

"Who says?"

"Everyone in this station. Probably everyone you've ever known."

"Oh." He straightened, flashing a grin. "As long as it's unanimous."

She laughed as he turned and sauntered towards his desk. "You're a freak, Tom," she called after him, shaking her head and going back to her slow work. 

Huey slapped a smile onto his face as his partner approached. "Morning, Tom."

"Hey, Jack. What've we got on the ropes for today?"

"Um." Jack glanced towards Welsh's office. "Well, I think you've gotta talk to Welsh. After that, we've got a whole pile of paperwork to catch up on."

Dewey rolled his eyes. "Goody. I'd better get in there, I guess." His carefree grin gave no indication that the day before had even happened.

Huey couldn't help but frown at that. "Hey, Tom?" He grabbed his partner's arm before he could take off.

Dewey grinned down at him. "Hey, Jack."

But Huey refused to grin. He found himself feeling almost sad as he met his partner's brown eyes. "You...you're real good at that, aren't you?"

Dewey's eyebrows shot up. "At what?"

"Smiling. Acting like nothing's wrong."

"What do you--"

Huey cut him off, the smiling act upsetting him more than he could understand. "I don't know you at all, do I?"

Dewey's grin faded at that, and he returned his partner's look. "Jack..." He glanced back at Welsh's door, and hesitated. "I'll talk to you in a few minutes, okay?"

"Not if you're going to keep that damned act up."

"No act." Dewey sighed. "I'll be back." He turned and headed for the office.

"Hey, Tom?"

Dewey glanced over at Ray, surprised by the use of his first name. "What?"

"We're sticking by you on this, man. You don't wanna do this, we won't let 'em force ya."

Even more surprised, Dewey looked almost confused as he answered. "Thanks." He sneaked a look back at Huey before heading into Welsh's office.

 

 

 

 

 

When the two dark suited agents from the FBI arrived at the station, they had no friends in the detective division. They went through a near-silent bullpen and into Welsh's office, facing down the glares of at least two detectives.

They went through the doors, and the silent room erupted into grumbled conversation. Even those people who had no idea what was going on knew the Feds were bad news. Most people in the division were fairly perceptive, and they easily put together Huey and Ray's sudden bad mood and Dewey's absence from the room as being involved in the Feds appearance, and that was enough to set the cops against the agents.

Most people went back to their business, but Huey went and perched himself on the edge of Ray's desk, waiting for his partner to emerge from the office, absently listening to Fraser and Ray talk.

It took a long time for the door to open again, and for Dewey to emerge with Welsh. The two Feds were left behind, for whatever reason, and Welsh walked Dewey past Ray and Huey, talking to him quietly. Dewey was listening with a closed-off look on his face, nodding slightly.

Huey stood as soon as they came out, but they passed him by, not even noticing. He sent a glare back towards Welsh's office, and only hesitated for a moment before going through the door without knocking. "What's going on?"

The agents gazed at him impassively. "Detective, this case is of no concern--"

"He's my partner. What the hell's going on? If he told you no, you can't force--"

"Detective Dewey has agreed to help us. That's all you need to know. Now could you please excuse us?"

Huey gaped, then glared, then turned and left the office, making a beeline after Dewey and Welsh.

 

 

 

 

 

"You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, right?" Welsh couldn't hide the anger in his tone. "It doesn't matter what those assholes say."

Dewey shrugged. "Yeah it does, 'cause they're right. It doesn't matter, sir. I'll do this tonight, and it'll be over. No big deal."

Welsh clenched his jaw, but nodded. "All right, go get your things. One hour?"

Dewey nodded without meeting his eyes, and went for the door.

Welsh grimaced, his lips pressed tightly together. A moment later he turned and almost ran into Jack Huey.

"Where'd he go? They said he was going to go along with this."

"He is." Welsh let out a tired breath and turned to head back to his office. 

Jack hesitated, then followed his boss. "How'd they talk him into it? Tom would never have agreed to this unless--"

"They spent twenty minutes telling him about children." Welsh paused in his steps, glaring when he realized the Feds were still camped out in his desk like they owned the place. He changed direction, heading for Ray and Fraser. "They showed him a lot of pretty photos of the kids they had 'found' while investigating his parents. They made it clear that none of those kids would be dead now if he had testified twenty years ago, and if he didn't do this now, every kid that died from now on would be on his head."

Huey snapped his head towards Welsh's office, and took a step towards the shut door.

Welsh grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Don't do it, Jack. It's over. Dewey's agreed to help, all we can do is be there for backup if he needs it."

 

 

 

 

 

Tom Dewey was not, by nature, an emotional guy. He was laid back. Easy going. He cared enough about his aunt and uncle to go visit them at their restaurant before work a few mornings out of the week, even risking the embarrassment of walking around the rest of the day smelling like fish. He would take a bullet for his partner in a heartbeat. That was about it. Everything else was reduced to a zone in his brain, a hey-don't-worry-about-it zone. 

He didn't like being anything but happy. If he got mad at someone, he forgot about it five minutes later, and simply because he hated feeling angry. That was why he and Jack got along so well. They had the same blasé kind of attitude about almost everything. It wasn't often Tom met a guy who shared his sense of humor, and he liked that when they were at work, it was him and Jack against the world. Nice feeling.

So no, he wasn't an emotional guy, not for the most part. He let things slip, buried them, forgot about them, just so he wouldn't have to feel bad. 

But now...

Right then, as he stood getting fitted with a wire, ready to meet with Mr. And Mrs. Peter Carmello at a nice restaurant the Feds had tipped them about, he was feeling a whole hell of a lot of emotions.

He was pissed. He was nervous, he was unhappy. He was exactly what he tried not to be. Everything was flooding back, the old fear and apprehension, the constant feeling of being watched, the worry that he was going to slip up and do something wrong, and he'd wake up sometime the next day wondering what had happened, with a few more bruises or cracked ribs.

Jesus Christ. His dad was alive. 

If it wasn't for Tom's attempts to block out pain and anger from his life, he would have confronted his uncle about this. But that wouldn't do any good -- Uncle Tom would get upset, say he only lied to protect Tom, and nothing would get accomplished. 

No point to it. Let them keep thinking he didn't know the truth. It made everything easier.

He stopped his train of thought, looking at himself dubiously in the mirror. This suit was way too expensive -- it didn't look right on him. He had a cheap-suit kind of body. 

But he was getting ready to play a role here. He was supposed to be a corrupt officer, so he had to dress like one. He was supposed to have followed in his father's footsteps, and the Feds told him that he was actually supposed to be happy to see his parents again, since he had heard they had some big operations going on. 

Either they agreed to tell him everything, or he would try to blackmail them. Either way, the Feds would get their tape, and he would be done with it.

"You ready to go, detective?"

Dewey grimaced at his reflection, then turned his back on the mirror. "Yeah."

"Now, we contacted your father through an undercover officer we had in the group your parents were working with in New York, so your story is set. All you have to do is get him to start talking. We'll do the rest. Your father--"

"Look, just don't..." Tom grimaced, heading out the door and towards the waiting car. "Don't call him that, okay? And don't worry, I know what to do. You just make sure when he's said everything you need to hear you come in and get him fast. I don't want to be in the same room with the man any longer than I have to."

The agent nodded tersely and handed Tom the keys to the sports car. He got behind the wheel, watched the agent go back inside the small hotel room, and sighed.

He started the engine and pulled out onto the road, and a phone rang.

Surprised, he looked down and saw the car phone. Jesus, they could have warned him. He picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Tom. It's me."

"Jack." Tom grinned instantly, even through his rising worries. "What's up?"

"Nothing. I just wanted you to know Vecchio and the Mountie and me are gonna be parked by that restaurant. We'll be right there if you need us."

Tom's smile grew. "Thanks, Jack."

"Anytime," his partner said sincerely. "And I meant what I said to you earlier. I still want to talk to you, Dewey. Without that stupid act you were pulling."

His grin faded. "Yeah. Want to come by tonight when this is all over? I have the feeling I'm gonna need the company."

"I was planning on it anyway."

Tom relaxed at that. 

"Oh, Tom?"

"Uh huh?"

"The Feds, they've agreed to let us listen in on the tap. We're gonna hear everything that goes on in there."

His relaxation melted away, leaving him tense once again. "All right," he said quietly, glad that at least Jack had warned him. It wasn't like he could think about it, though -- he couldn't exactly change what was gonna be said because Ray and Fraser were going to be listening in. 

"See you soon, man."

"Yeah." Tom swallowed, hanging the phone up. In a way he felt better. No matter how this went down tonight, afterwards he and Jack would be back at his place, same as always. Like nothing at all happened. 

He saw the bright parking lot lights of the restaurant up ahead, and he swallowed again to coat a dry throat. 

Ten minutes later he was inside the restaurant, stuffing a valet slip into his pocket and approaching the hostess like she was the quintessence of everything evil. "Uh. Hi. I'm meeting some people?"

"Name?"

He swallowed. Time to say it out loud. "Carmello."

The woman consulted her list, then smiled brightly. "Here we are. Your friends are already here. I'll take you to their table."

He sucked in a deep breath, following the woman even though every instinct in him told him to just turn and run.

She stopped at a table and smiled at Tom. "Here you are, sir. Your waiter will be with you in a moment."

He nodded his thanks and stopped delaying the inevitable -- he looked down at the seated couple.

A spark went through him, the strangest feeling of deja vu. It was like the last twenty-five years had never happened. He looked into those unsmiling brown eyes and had to fight to contain the rush of fear and anger.

Peter Carmello had changed only in age. His face was exactly the same, with a few more lines and thick patches of gray hair. Julia Carmello had changed. She had colored her hair, and was wearing two times more makeup than she ever had while he was growing up.

They were strangers, but he could flash to so many memories of them...It was an incongruous feeling.

"Thomas." 

His father's voice sent a shudder down him, but he knew he had to play along. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could forget the entire night had ever happened. "Father. Mother."

The older man was studying him carefully. He held out a hand suddenly. "Your right arm."

Dewey blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Give me your arm."

There was a pause, and Dewey had a rush of inspiration. He had a small, crescent-shaped scar on the inside of his arm, and it had been there for as long as he could remember.

That must be how his parents had discovered the man the Feds had sent in before wasn't really him.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, and quickly rolled up his sleeve. With a blank expression on his face, he lifted his arm, showing the small scar to both people sitting across from him.

His father studied it, then looked up at his face again. Finally he smiled, a strange-looking expression on that face. "Tom. It's been a long time."

He nodded, rolling his sleeve down again. "My uncle told me you were both dead."

A flash of anger flitted over his father, but it left quickly. He nodded. "I assumed as much. My brother was always too smart for his own good."

Tom glanced over at his mother, but she remained silent, studying his face with repressed emotion glittering in her eyes. "I got the word you were alive and in Chicago, but I didn't believe it."

"You're a police officer." His father didn't bother mincing words or offering fake glad-to-see-yous. 

Tom nodded. "Have been for about eight years."

His father's sharp eyes caught on the suit, and he saw exactly what the Feds wanted him to see. "Most of the cops around here don't dress quite so well."

Tom met his eyes. "Let's not bother with speculation. I do a little dealing, yeah. It's easy for cops to make connections in this town, and there's always money to be made. I'm not an upstanding citizen, and neither are either of you, so let's cut the crap."

"Is that why you asked to meet us?" Those familiar brown eyes were almost twinkling amusement.

Dewey shrugged. "I don't see why we can't help each other out. Word is you have some pretty heavy stuff going on, and I see the suit you're wearing, so don't bother lying." He drew in a breath. "People like you can always use a cop on their side, and I can always use a little extra money. The fact that we're related helps, but this isn't about that."

"Not for long."

Dewey's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Carmello shrugged easily. "I'm dying."

Tom froze. Those words sent the emotions warring inside of him. "You're what?"

"Dying. Cancer. Happens to the best of us." Carmello leaned forward slightly. "When I heard you lived here, it interested me. I would have liked to see my son following in my footsteps. I heard you were a cop, and I was disappointed. Maybe now I don't have reason to be."

Tom sat back, his face clouding. "I don't know." He forced the emotion out of his voice, unsure of whether he was happy or sad or just numb. "That's a lot bigger than I was expecting."

"Yes, it is. In fact..." Carmello reached under the table and pulled up a thin briefcase. "Take this. Look through it. You'll see exactly how big this is. We can talk."

Dewey took the case hesitantly. "Why? Why are you giving this to me?"

"Maybe I'm just sentimental, son."

He couldn't hide a wince.

"You won't betray me. I taught you a long time ago what happens when you don't do as you're told, and I don't think you've forgotten the lessons."

Dewey swallowed. Shoving feelings aside, he remembered the tap and the Feds and spoke softly. "So these papers show exactly what you've been up to the last couple of decades?"

"More or less. The important things, anyway." Carmello gazed straight at his son. "I don't have long left. If you don't do this, or you try and turn it in to some of your cop friends, there will be people who will handle you. You know I wouldn't lie about that, son. After tonight you will be followed and watched, until you make a decision. One phone call is all I need to make."

Dewey swallowed. This was so much easier, and so much harder, than he thought it would be. "I'm sorry, dad."

Carmello frowned. "You're telling me no?"

"No. I'm telling you you won't get a chance to make that phone call."

Carmello sat up, eyeing him suspiciously. "Boy, if you're saying what I think you're saying--"

"Mr. Carmello, could you come with us?"

They all looked up, and Dewey relaxed at the dark-suited Feds now standing at their table. 

Carmello, to his credit, didn't bother trying to bolt, and he obviously wasn't armed. He just turned and shot a glare at his son that Dewey knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

"Mrs. Carmello, if you could come too, ma'am? Detective?"

Dewey reached over, handing the case to one of the agents without even looking at it.

"Thank you. Carmello? Let's go."

His father moved slowly, his eyes staying on his son. "You shouldn't have done this."

Tom swallowed, but returned the stare. "You're not my father. You did when I was ten."

Carmello didn't have a chance to answer. The Feds pushed him towards the front of the restaurant, followed by his mother, walking calmly behind.

Tom's eyes went to her, and stayed on until she was gone.

She hadn't said a single word to him.

 

 

 

 

 

"Do you really think the guy's playing it smart, admitting to have killed somebody? Even if he didn't do everything they said he did, he'll still go down for a long time."

"Jack, I hate to say this, but you have to stop listening to oldies stations. The songs are apparently too thought-provoking for you."

Jack weaved his way past a couple of patrolmen. "Look, I'm not saying it bothers me. I'm just wondering. What makes a guy proclaim his innocence by saying he shot somebody?"

"He's not proclaiming innocence." Dewey shrugged easily, making his way into the bullpen and nodded a grin to Ray Vecchio Part Deux. "He's just stating the facts. Frannie! Baby!"

"Drop dead, Dewey."

He just wagged his eyebrows at her, moving to his desk and dropping down to rummage through the papers for a file.

Jack stood over him, waiting. He glanced over at Ray and saw the blond looking towards them with an obvious question in his eyes. After all, everyone should have expected Dewey to be a mess that morning, the day after putting both of his parents into prison.

Jack just smiled back. Dewey _was_ a mess. But Jack was the only one who knew it, and it would stay that way. His partner had a gift for covering up his feelings with jokes and smiles, and a few days ago it bothered Jack.

Until last night, when he had driven his partner home and sat with him for a long time, talking about everything. Tom admitted that hiding his feelings probably started when he was a kid, back with his father, and he had never learned to turn it off. He opened up to Jack, reliving his childhood, shouting and fuming and trying not to cry over it. Jack stayed with him, letting him know it was okay, and had ended up falling asleep on Tom's couch. 

That morning, Tom was up and grinning and making him breakfast, but had dropped the smiles long enough to tell Jack how grateful he was that his partner was there for him, and that if Jack really wanted to get the whole Tom Dewey, grins aside, well, fine. Just not at the station.   
  
Jack agreed. Tom needed the security of that act while there were other people around, and he respected that. 

"So you think he just shouldn't have said anything?"

Jack looked down at the sound of Tom's voice. "No, that's not what I'm saying. But I don't care if he shot the deputy or didn't shoot the deputy. Admitting he shot the sheriff isn't gonna win him any points, you know?"

"Maybe. All depends on who he's talking to. Maybe he's singing the song to a bunch of guys who really hated the sheriff, but loved the deputy. And he's just trying to get the facts straight."

Ray got up to move past them to Welsh's office, and caught the last past of that. He shook his head, relieved everything was back to normal, but unable to avoid a snort. "Freaks."

 

 

 

 

The End


End file.
